


Early Mornings In America

by buttpatrol (orphan_account)



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Almost the start of a relationship, But not quite, M/M, Navel-Gazing, not sans fards, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8207834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/buttpatrol
Summary: “It’s a bad idea.”“It’s a great idea, we can snuggle, and prop up each others fragile psyches”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, remember all those times I said that I found writing rpf weird and would probably never do it? I don't know what happened either! 
> 
> Please enjoy this fictionalized approximation of people as interpreted through the personas presented on the popular reality tv show Rupauls Drag Race (and UNHhhh) by my weird ass. Female pronouns b/c thats how I am used to Queens referring to each other.
> 
> Not Beta'd, oh at all

It’s Saturday morning, or maybe Sunday morning (Katya has been on the road too long to keep track anymore) in some bed and some hotel in America.

 The wig she is using for the pillow and the escaped press on nail caught in is a not a _good_ sign. _Please tell me I wasn’t so tired and out of it I fell asleep in full face_ , Katya thinks running a finger over her cheek. It comes away sticky with thick sweat proof foundation. She didn’t doubt that the gender lines where no longer just blurry, but runny and kind of melted. Like a picture of real biological women left out in the rain.

She is sore from her toes to the tips of her hair. The gig had been nuts. Too hot, and crowded, with thunder and rain beating down on the roof of the club, audible even over the loud dance music. Good crowd, lots of queens. Dancing queens, and lipsyncs. Trixie had sung a country song and Katya had wiggled around onstage, and then they had both stumbled back to their hotel, Trixie drunk on free cocktails and Katya drunk on her own brain’s tendency to flood her system with adrenaline.

And here they are. Trixie is on the far side of the large bed curled up around a pillow. Fully changed back into a fresh faced boyish pumpkin, except for some smudges of brown near her left ear, and some of stray flecks of glitter that seem to exist in the of air drag dressing rooms like a sparkly miasma. At least one of them had the presence of mind to wash their face, as hilarious as Trixie’s makeup gone askew like a Picasso painting might have been.

Trixie looks so young asleep. Like someone who should be playing Frisbee in the university quad while they work on their Finance major. Not stuffing fistful of singles down the front of her dress in poorly ventilated clubs, co headlining with a jaded, stringy, wannabe gymnast. Daddy issues Barbie, and anxiety-ridden Skipper. Meta-textually in terms of their drag personas; a plastic Stepford wife, and a unnerving Russian gogo dancer. Bestest friends forever.

It was good though. Easy in a way few relationships are. Katya didn’t baulk at Trixie use of humour to discuss abuse, and Trixie followed Katya abstract, philosophical trains of thought.

Sometimes, Katya wishes the creed “don’t fuck your sisters” wasn’t realistic, pertinent advice. That it actually worked out (and if Sharon and Alaska couldn’t make it work, what chances did the rest of us mortals have) every once in a while.  That they could make, out and spoon, and argue about who is eating who out, and also share lash glue, and nail polish and a stage without ruining one side of the relationship. Or both.

Still this rule was a social construct, and social constructs where made to be discussed and re-evaluated.

“Trixie. Trixie. TRACY”

“Huhwah?” Trixie jerks awake, immediately recoiling from the morning light. “What? Ugh. God I was having that dream again where Alyssa is yelling at me and I can’t understand a word she is saying.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s basically every interaction between you and her, but listen. Listen. Listen.  Do you think to people  could like just make out with each other and all that good stuff, and work together, and date, but like _not date?_ Like what crosses the line into too nitty-gritty and real?”

Trixie burrowed back down into the blankets, “Oh god, is this another dancing is math thing? I have been awake for thirty seconds, I don’t need this.  Are you still wearing lipstick?”

Katya looks at the dirty lace front wig that is now sliding off the mattress, at the oversized Kim Chi shirt (Trixie’s) she was using as pajamas with no underwear under them.  She opened her arms expansively, “Who am I even? What does this look like too you?”

She doesn’t let Trixie answer. Just gets up and stumbles to the bathroom to make a half-hearted attempt to wash her face.

Trixie uses the bathroom next and while she is waiting Katya finds boxers and leans out the window to smoke. Listening to the sounds of LA traffic beginning to pick up outside.

“Okay, let me see if I understood _any_ of that. You want a friends with benefits things, only instead of the benefits being sex, there are a weird road-wife romantic benefits.”

Katya bumps the back of her head trying to lean back into the room, and drops the cigarette three stories to the parking lot below. “Yes. Exactly. Road marry me. We can road go steady with each other.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“It’s a great idea, we can snuggle, and prop up each others fragile psyches”

Trixie’s rolls her eyes, “We already do that. Look, I love you. In broad, patient, multi-layered way. And you-- you love me. But you love everyone. You fall in love with at least one handsome, wholesome stranger a week. You have gone to do laundry and come back in love with a guy. _You were only gone 30 minutes._ You are disgusting and intense and talented and amazing and I wouldn’t change one thing about you. You are my pick to be stuck in a nursing home with, in sixty years. I don’t… I don’t want to ruin that by creating weird expectations.”

Katya deflates, the weird pipe dream of a future she had cook up over the last half hour fading, as reality crept in.

There is a long silence between them, which if not fully romantic, is not completely platonic either.

“We can hold hands in bed, while Live with Kelly is on, and update our social media.” Trixie offered.

“And make out?” Katya teased, wiggling on bed in a way she hoped was tantalising.

“Don’t push your luck, ashtray.” Trixie yawned, flopping beside her, “Ashtray. Good drag name Ashtré with accent over the e”

“If brushing my teeth is what it takes to make this magic happen, I can do that.”

Trixie doesn’t argue just half smiles, looking away.

The hold hands until room service delivers their bagels and eggs. Then they pack all their heels and hair and hearts, to do everything again in a new city, together.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And they all lived happily ever after, except Trixie would still not watch Contact


End file.
